A while stood he, viewing her with eyes aglow with yearning tenderness, and she, knowing this, kept her face down-bent, therefore. Now beholding all the beauty of her, because of her gracious loveliness, his breath caught, then hurried thick and fast, insomuch that when he would have spoken he could not; thus he worshipped her in a look and she, content to be so worshipped, sat with head down-bent, as sweetly demure, as proud and stately as if—as if she ne'er in all her days had fled with hampering draperies caught up so high!
So Beltane stood worshipping her as she had been some young goddess in whose immortal beauty all beauty was embodied.
At last he spake, hoarse and low and passionate:
"Helen!" said he, "O Helen!"
Slowly, slowly the Duchess lifted stately head and looked on him: but now, behold! her glance was high and proud, her scarlet mouth firm-set like the white and dimpled chin below and her eyes swept him with look calm and most dispassionate.
"Ah, my lord Beltane," she said, sweet-voiced, "what do you here within the privacy of Genevra's garden?"
Now because of the sweet serenity of her speech, because of the calm, unswerving directness of her gaze, my Beltane felt at sudden loss, his outstretched arms sank helplessly and he fell a-stammering.
"Helen, I—I—O Helen, I have dreamed of, yearned for this hour! To see thee again—to hear thy voice, and yet—and yet—"
"Well, my lord?"
Now stood Beltane very still, staring on her in dumb amaze, and the pain in his eyes smote her, insomuch that she bent to her embroidery and sewed three stitches woefully askew.